PagesSectionsFrom the old notebook"A song that is not sung is a horse that is not ridden: it forgets its road." Kinsmen
By year
| Autumn17 September 2006 The mountain has put on its old chapan,
the grey one with the yellow collar. The river counts the leaves and does not lose count. I am older than the river's arithmetic, but I stand and watch it work. Written at the House of Culture, on the back of a rehearsal programme, in 1998. The komuz of my teacher27 August 2006 My teacher of the komuz was blind Asanbek, who played at the House of Culture before me. He tuned by the sound of the river. When they built the new reservoir he said the river now plays in a different key, and he retuned all his songs. I still play them in his key.  The reservoir in August. Cholpon took it from the bus.Three strings11 June 2006 The komuz has three strings and the people who do not play it think this is simple. My teacher said: three strings, three worlds. The first for the earth, the second for the animal, the third for the man. The melody walks from one to the other and then goes home to the first. Every song, even the sad one. If you want to understand an old song, ask which string it ends on. Spring on the jailoo14 May 2006 The snow went off the pass on Tuesday,
the horses knew it before the radio. My grandson laughs: grandfather, the radio is faster. I say: the radio has never smelled the grass. Written in May 1979 at the summer pasture above the valley. The grandson in the poem is now a grandfather himself, may God keep him. A word before the songs2 April 2006 Assalamu aleikum, readers. My granddaughter says now there are people in America who can read what an old man from the Kara-Buura writes. I don't believe her, but let it be. I have written songs since 1951. The best ones were sung at weddings and forgotten by morning, as it should be. The ones here are the ones that stayed in the notebook. |